The sword on the wall
by Aranarth
Summary: Please review!


It is quite a boring existence, hanging on the wall of my wielder's bedroom. But I was not so idle once. Ah, the memories. You do not believe a simple sword can remember? Try taking one into your hands. The steel is ancient. It remembers.

I can recall little before my birth. I was but a lump of iron without shape. Dreaming in the earth, content with such an existence. Until the day when the miners found me. Strange compliments were given to me then. Flawless metal, first grade ore. I still do not understand the meaning of these words. I was given to a blacksmith, a simple piece of ore, and he created a thing of beauty. I was molten first and the impurities in me removed. I became pure iron. Hammered upon an anvil, I slowly took the shape of a sword. I remember the sharpening, the quenching and tempering in salt water. The decorating of my hilt, blade and scabbard. I became a graceful blade, resting in a scabbard with silver incrustations, and my hilt had a single white opal in the middle.

"Please accept this gift, hîr nîn, and may it serve you well in the defense of our people. " said my Creator.

My wielder took me in his hand, and we both experienced a feeling of unity. A perfect match.

" I thank you, blacksmith. I see that you did not waste time during your apprenticeship with the Dwarves of Nogrod." replied my master with the ease of a lord who was comfortable around his people.

Soon I was borne into battle. For the people of my master had a great enemy, and he was relentless in seeking their complete destruction. Great was he once, and his name was Melkor, he who arises in might. But despite his fall from grace, his power was still unmatched. In countless skirmishes I took part, slicing through the armor and weaponry of the soldiers of the black enemy. I felt the rage of my master when we first encountered these orcs. They came to harm his people, and for them, there was no mercy. The Sindar ambushed them mercilessly, my lord at the head of his army. They did not stand a chance. But as I cut through a helm of an orc attempting to flee the field of battle, I sensed my lord's righteous wrath turn into terror. On the bald scalp of the hideous creature there were a few, greasy and short threads. And they were silver.

That night my master cried in the arms of his wife. He could not imagine facing his own corrupted people on the field of battle. More then that, he was not able to comprehend such evil, such twisting of the images of the children of Eru. But under all the pain, there was guilt. He thought that he had failed them. But his people depended on him. He had no replacement. And so, he fought on. I blazed in his arms, for he shone in battle like a star. I was his wrath, the natural extension of his arm, and the blade that dealt death to his enemies. But not always were we two victorious. I remember him cradling the bodies of children in his arms, burying his captains, mourning his loyal soldiers. Abandoned by his gods, caught between the enemy and the deep blue sea. But despite the desperate odds he would not stop fighting. The pressure grew, until one night the skies in the north started blazing gold. For a full year and more, the glow persisted. The very earth trembled from a titanic battle. But my wielder would not risk his people. And one day it was all over. The great Foe vanished, and my master and his people rejoiced.

These were peaceful days. Oh, we went to battle even then, but no longer were we plagued by desperation. Mostly I spend my time resting in my scabbard, although sometimes my master would spar with his kinsman, Celeborn. We enjoyed those duels. Celeborn was a valiant opponent, a silver cheetah of incredible speed, but he could not match my master, for he was an experienced and cunning lion. But I enjoyed the moments when they could sing, play chess, discuss poetry, or just sit in companionable silence. All those things were denied to them in the years of war. My lord could take his mantle of a war-leader off, and be a king who ruled his people in peace. He could be a father to his daughter, and a husband to his wife. Once, my master's daughter took me out of my scabbard without his permission. I did not hear him yell so loud even in battle. He considered me a dangerous thing, and he was right. I was made for kings in battle, not for maidens in play. But despite being made for war, I also enjoyed these days of gold. The Sindar replenished their strength and numbers and all seemed well in the world. But it did not last. One evening a terrible scream was heard from the north. The peace ended with the return of Morgoth. My bearer was prepared by the foresight of his wife. Despite living in peace for three long ages, the armories of Menegroth were bristling with long spears, good swords. The quivers were full of sharpened arrows. We were ready.

When the enemy came, my master marched out to meet him. The enemy forces moving between Aros and Gelion were his target. The two forces meet on the hill the Sindar call Amon Ereb. I remember it as a hill of blood. On that hill, the allies and kinsman of my master made their stand. Denethor and his Laiquendi were under attack by countless thousands of Orcs. The Sindar charged forward and their attack was majestic to behold. Phalanges of elves in armor made of polished steel that shined like the moon on a clear night, the silver of their hairs reflecting starlight from above. And in front of them all, charged my wielder, with me in hand. Desperation gave him strength, and he and his people cut into the black mass of orcish flesh like an arrow passing through tall grass. But for everyone we slew, two more were waiting, brandishing their spears and yelling strange battle cries in a guttural language I could not understand. Countless enemies still stood before the king and his allies. But the Sindar fought on, and their battle cries rang out through the night, chilling the blood of their enemies. Starlight flashed on my naked blade, as my bearer parried, sliced, cut. Soon, the battle was over. But we were to late. The moon shined off the blood that was spilt on the top of the hill. Denethor lay still, like he was sleeping, but the gaping wound on his chest told us clearly that he shall not wake. My master went to one knee, and gently kissed the eyes of his fallen cousin. There was no celebration that night.

When we returned, my master spent most of his time brooding in the peace of his chambers. One evening, after thinking it through, he asked his wife to place a belt of sorcery around his kingdom. He could not stand the suffering of his people, that would be imminent in the war that shall come. And so Doriath was created. Land of the Fence. The name Eglador was quickly forgotten. I got a place of honour on the wall of my master's chamber. But the inactivity that came is so incredibly boring, and that boredom can not be dispelled by the occasional sparring. But I am content, for my master finds happiness in the fact that his people shall suffer no more.

How rude of me. I did not introduce myself. I shall not pretend that I find sense in your complicated etiquette, but some concessions are in order. My name is Aranrúth. I am the King's Ire.


End file.
